


bark and bite

by poziomeczka



Series: knuckledusters au [2]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, esca's a gobshite, faux scottishness, gangster verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/pseuds/poziomeczka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>another little vignette from the knuckledusters au :)</p>
<p>and wondrous lalazee wrote a phenomenal snippet in this very sandbox: http://lalazee.livejournal.com/62338.html#cutid1</p>
            </blockquote>





	bark and bite

It's far too early for Esca to be pleased about any of this, or even remotely civil. It has to show on his face, at least to a certain extent, he thinks, as he's let into the warehouse without as much as a nod of assent, the gravel chafing and scratching underneath the thick soles of his boots. It looks makeshift. Esca fiercely hopes it is makeshift, for nothing that has been planned (even in the slightest) has any right to look such a mess; with something that looks like left-overs of a pavement serving for the floor, crunching under his feet with every step. There are several, hideous, paisley-pattern sofas strewn around, scattered unfortunately across the vast space. Overall it gives the feeling of what Esca Nana's living room would have looked like had it gone flying and crashed into a local repository. 

He finds Marcus in an errand armchair, in front of narrow mirror propped precariously against a conveniently placed couch. His head ducked low, the knobs of his spine visible from beneath the black fabric of his , his back a curved bow, the constant hum of the clippers turning a sharp twinging noise when tiny blades cut into Marcus's thick hair.   
"Liathan, aye? He's a righ' twat, he is." Esca states conversationally in greeting, moving to stand by the armchair, as heinously patterned as the rest of the resident furniture. He'd like to say he's cutting an intimidating figure but if he is to be honest with himself about, he resembles a rather puny-looking cronie more than anything else. "Wide bastard too". 

Marcus murmurs his acknowledgement, a soft husky mutter, his dark hair coming off, sheared in fluffy clouds like dust. He doesn't look up, must know by now that coming from Esca's mouth it's as close of a compliment on Liathan's character as he'll ever get. " 'Wide', huh?" 

"Aye, 'clever' if yer like" Esca elaborates, with some distaste, toeing the grains of gravel and dirt. Restless and still thrumming with excitement, itching from it. He tries to plant his eyes somewhere, ends up watching the wisps of hair descent like mist on the ground. There's a brown sheen to them, from where they have fallen on the floor catching the lazy morning beams, blue-ish. The sun dribbles sleepily through the cracks in the filthy windows, dappling Marcus's exposed, smooth shoulders. 

"Liathan says tae me never ge' mair than two grand" he continues, voice wavering slightly as he watches the muscles of Marcus's arms flex like intricate machinery, when the man rolls his shoulders, freckles with brown little specks, limbs gone stiff in his crouch by the mirror. 

Esca swallows, pushes his hands further down his pockets, tries for nonchalance. "A says tae 'im we aught tae get mair than tha', we did too." 

April's warming the walls, hugging the red brick like spring in some sodding Dickensian novel. It heats the skin, blooms in slow patches at the back Esca's neck, warms Marcus too, the tight black is the only thing clinging to his chest. Esca's not entirely sure where to put his eyes, or the rest of himself for that matter. Light glints in broad swipes over Marcus's freckle-scattered biceps, clings to his forearms, faintly dusted with hair. He's not used to seeing that much of him, that's for sure, had not seen him shed the scaly armour of quilted jackets and thick gray hoodies before, had not seen him bare. 

"We got aff with four an' five an' a haff" Esca adds quickly, remembering he hasn't spoken in a while. Marcus thumbs the clippers quiet, scratches a wide palm over his head, ruffling the short hairs affectionately. Esca wonders what it would feel like under his own palm, how would it feel not to have anything to hold onto, nothing to fall back on when Marcus-- He shudders, passing it as spikes of non-existent cold. 

" Thare's a new guy. Liathan didnae ken 'im, it's a cuntin' pity tho' tha' we've no met 'im before. Didnae argie too much."   
Esca can hear Marcus sigh, a long rippling frustrated sound, can see him pinching the bridge of his nose, works it out from the shadows on the ground. 

"Esca" he says, lifting his head up heavily. "You have to slow down. I can't understand a fucking word you're saying. And stop moving, for fuck's sake, you're like a fruit fly on acid." 

A shock of green in sooty lashes. With specks of gold shimmering, kaleidoscope-like, like the ones his grandmother used to get for him down at the fairs. Every bloody season, cause he always lost the lot of them god knows where after two days or so.   
Esca thinks that he might be required to speak. Yeah, it would definitely be better for him to speak. It prods at him, a lazy survival instinct somewhere at the back of his fuzzy brain. 

"Well?" Marcus says, arching his scarred brow with polite impatience. Esca hears him say it, far- away and hardly there bit like he's plunged underwater and Marcus is yelling something from the poolside, irritated that Esca can't hear him. Eyes captured by the planes of Marcus's tanned face, so visible, so there all of sudden, Esca can see the irritation slowly seeping into Marcus's features rather than hear it. 

"Esca?" 

He has never thought of it much. Of Marcus, that is. Sure, he thinks of Marcus plenty but never really in those terms. Aquila is handsome, almost annoyingly so, more pretty in the face than Liathan even. It has always been so and it will always be so, harsh fact of your life and all that. No one had ever paid it much heed and neither did Esca. Now, this. This is different. This is Marcus for what he really is, for what some of them forget often enough, whether because they have stayed with him long enough to grow used to the new amendments by now or because they have seen too little of him, like Esca, to know any better. This is the Marcus that can kill a man with his bare hands. Could probably strangle him with one, look the bastard in the eye as life bled out of him.   
Marcus looks it now. All of it. With his hair gone, there is nothing to distract from it. The strong, determined set of his jaw, rough and wild as if he has broken off his chains, as if he's free now. Ferality, mean and hungry, etched into his tawny face. It makes Esca's heart clench a little. 

He's not very aware of the things around him, or even within him for that matter, dully conscious of life-giving oxygen ushering in and out of him in gusts. Esca licks his lips shakily, his mouth parched all of sudden, any hopes of syllables dying on his tongue, turned to dust. 

"Your mouth" Marcus says with a voice Esca learned to read as schooled disinterest, ducking his head back between his knees, the clippers springing into their low buzz as he shaves off the last stripe of coarse, even hair, brushes off a fresh puff of dawn from his crown. 

"Um" Esca tries.   
Marcus's frown deepens, a crease marring his skin, the thick arches of his eyebrows startling.   
"Your mouth" Marcus repeats clearly, as if Esca is a little slow. Come to think of it, he might as well be. "You can never keep it closed" 

"What?" Esca scoffs feeling the tendons of his poor, dry throat straining even with so meagre an effort, the momentary indignation serving to dissipate some of his definitely-not-lust-induced stupor. 

"It's always open" Marcus continues absent-minded, picking stray hairs from his shoulders, broad palms flickering over his chest and Esca wishes fervently he could screw his eyes shut and shield himself somehow from all of this. Whatever this is. "Not only when you're yammering on. When you're thinking or listening to Liathan or anyone really or concentrating on something. Even when you're walking sometimes. It's always open". The tips of Esca's ears burn hotly. 

When he speaks he finds his voice barely audible over the whooshing pulse in his ears, it's as if he's standing in a very strong wind and trying to yell to someone who's miles ahead. 

"So?" he snaps petulantly, lips pursing instinctively in an impulse to prove Marcus wrong. The other man snorts, eyes brimming with mirth, making Esca narrow his own in return. He's no kid, he's done enough to prove it and for all he cares Marcus can get tae--- 

"So" Marcus says, grinning. Esca had found those grins surprisingly warm in the past, if a little condescending. Now Marcus smiles like a young wolf. There's nothing friendly about it, just esurience. "How about you put that mouth to good use and tell me, in clear BBC English or whatever else it is that you use to communicate with people that are not Liathan and tell me where the fuck Liathan is and what the hell have you done with the cars, cause surprise surprise I did not quite catch that the last time around"   
Oh yeah. That. That's why Esca's here. 

"Or" he offers, voice dropping low, a dangerous purr as Marcus shifts in the horrible armchair, widens his stance, hands over his knees, smirk cutting in sharp. "I can put that clever pink little mouth of yours to a different purpose entirely"   
Esca can practically hear his own teeth rattle, his jaw clenching hard, muscles fluttering furiously like heartbeat. It shouldn't sting the way it does, spiky little darts piercing straight into his pride, sobering him up. He knows it to be a joke, an offhand comment that is neither outwardly hostile nor genuinely inviting. A tug-of-war,like most things are to Esca. 

At least, if recent endeavours are anything to go by or all the ones that have anything to do with Marcus. If Marcus is not lethal in his severity then predatory is the only alternative. 

He could cave, of course. There are always options, a part of him murmurs to him so low and so sweet he barely registers it. It would be so easy to give in, to kneel between Marcus's denim-glad thighs, skim them, up and down, with blunt fingernails. Bite his lips cherry red, play coy, put on a show. Smirk when Marcus's eyes widen comically. He wouldn't have expected that now, would he? It could be so easy, to lick a hot wet stripe up Marcus's abdomen, that slither of honey skin where his ridiculous sling low.   
Who knows, perhaps he could win it like this, get one over, even if by catching Marcus off guard alone. 

There's a glimmer of surprise in Marcus's face as if he can glimpse the clockworks of Esca's mind ticking away. It shows in his eyes and tugs at the scar by the corner of his mouth. It's both almost gratifying enough for Esca to kneel and yet nowhere near gratifying enough. 

Cause it's not for Esca. Not really. It could have been anyone else. There had been a line of anyone elses. And after him, there would be another anyone else. 

"Well? Which one will it be?" and there's the impatience, the self-assurance slipping back into Marcus's voice, as if he knows now, knows which one it's going to be better than Esca himself does, a breath of 'easier than I thought' echoing in his stiletto-sharp smirk and Esca's head. So when he comes to stand between Marcus's legs however, Esca does not play coy or bite his lip an inviting shade of red as planned and when he bares his teeth next to Marcus's ear there is nothing docile about it. 

"I'm afraid" he smiles, silvery smooth in his Standard English, feels a surge of triumph when Marcus's muscles bunch against his front. "I'd rather pass on the gonorrhoea"   
"How about you watch your goddamn mouth" a warm huff of air against the of his face, making Esca's heart sink and swell at the same time. 

It's not teasing anymore, Marcus's good humour gone, evaporated as quickly as it appeared. It's never been a Esca stood chance at winning, he knows that now. Maybe it's fear or adrenaline, or what soldiers used to call spunk back in the day, a surge of reckless courage in the face of great danger, that makes him say it, words tumbling out of his mouth, making him wish desperately he could shove them back in where they came from the second they are uttered. 

"Why should I? You watch my mouth enough for both of us"   
His breath comes out short, a puff of exhaled air that he can feel coming back to him, damp on his hot cheeks like dew as he chokes on an inhale, hitching and dying, like a cooling ember, in his throat as tan, scarred fingers circle around the column of his neck.   
"Listen, kid. Liathan may like your scrawny ass enough to let you get away with it, but when you answer to me you will take better care to speak as you should. Understood?"   
The sneer in his voice is matched, pace for pace, by the squeeze of his broad hand, gentle enough not to cause Esca damage, forceful enough to make the his eyes water, drowning the prosphenes blossoming in his vision. 

When Marcus finally lets go, it feels like hours to Esca, as if he's spent ages suspended here, surrounded by Marcus. He eases back slowly, the calloused pads of his fingertips slipping from Esca's sweaty skin one by one as he sneers, an ugly twisted quirk of his mouth into Esca's bemused face. 

He coughs, a hoarse, wheezing sound as he gulps down air, cool as liquid. He's a little shaky, sweat beaded on his brow.   
"That will be all" Marcus says with finality, leaning back in the tatty old armchair, his stance relaxed but the tightness around his eyes and lips is evident as he watches Esca, guardedly. 

"Liathan's getting the money to Placidus, if you're still wondering" Esca throws in parting, rolling his shoulders, hunching onto himself, bracing up against the onslaught of April, the gravel crunching behind his retreating footsteps. He feels light-headed, not humiliated or angry as he thinks he ought to be, not exhilarated as he finds himself to be, fingers dreamily toying with the light, fading marks on his throat, not even saving himself that shame for the privacy of his own room.


End file.
